Blind Side
by ZuWang
Summary: Callen finds himself blinded when the team goes undercover to find a drug dealer inside the Naval Medical Center's Wounded Warrior Detachment.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, places or show you know and love. I'm just happy that the people who do own them let us take them out and play with them sometimes.

Because I've been asked before: I never begin to post a fic until I have finished writing it. This fic is complete, on paper (well...on digits anyway) and ready to share with you in bite sized, nougat-filled pieces. I like to play with my audience a bit (cue maniacal laughter), so I chop my stories into bits. Assuming I have access to internet (read; no one has an earthquake or hurricane) for the foreseeable future, you will have regular updates until this is complete.

This fic is un-beta'd, so you may flog me with a wet noodle for grammar and spelling issues.

**Chapter 1: You want to do WHAT?**

The office was busy, filled with all of those standard, early-Monday-morning just-on-shift kinds of sounds. Callen was awkwardly melding the ingredients for a 'real' cup of tea; Deeks was sorting through a box of pastries looking for anything with chocolate in it that Kensi might have overlooked. Nate was tapping away on a keyboard, sorting through the past weekend's junk e-mails.

Sam sat down at his newly remodeled workspace, reluctantly pulled the morning's paperwork out of his in-box, and fiddled with the dial of the radio on his desk. The first few lines of Lynard Skynard's "Freebird" resonated in the open space.

"You know, G," said Sam, a small smile beginning to play at the corners of his lips, "this could be your theme song."

"I need a theme song?" Callen considered this for a moment. "If I'm going to have a theme song, I think it needs to be the James Bond theme. Something that captures my essence..."

"You think your 'essence' is ode-de-James Bond? You're delusional." Sam was grinning now.

"Delusional?" Callen looked over at Nate, who was doing a very bad job of disguising his interest in this particular conversation. _The songs we pick probably say something about us_, G thought, wondering if that should bother him. "Delusional, huh...so what would your theme song be?"

Sam answered without a pause. "I Need Love. LL Cool J. First rap ballad. Hot. Sexy..."

"LL Cool J, huh?" Callen stopped, pretending to think about that for a second. He fooled no one. The team braced for the wisecrack everyone knew was coming. "Nah...I see you more as a Will Smith kind of guy."

"Will Smith?" Sam snorted. "Rapper turned comic turned actor? Guy doesn't even know who he is."

"Not bad in Independence Day, though," Kensi interjected. "And kinda hot." The men around the table looked at her, Callen's eyebrows raised, Deeks's mouth hanging open, as they digested this latest bit of information about their friend. "What? I'm just saying..."

With a quick shake of his head, Callen got back to the business at hand—bothering his long-suffering partner. "OK, maybe not Will Smith...maybeeee...Vanilla Ice..."

"I will kick your skinny white a..."

Just which part of Callen's skinny anatomy was due for a kicking was drowned out by the shrill whistle from above them, and Hetty yelling "Lady and Gentlemen!" from the balcony. The team headed up the stairs and entered OSP's dark, cave-like nerve center. There, they found Hetty deep in conversation with a man in the uniform of a Naval medical officer. She broke off from what she was saying with an expansive gesture. "And here they are." The look in her eye would have been easy to miss, had her co-workers not been among the most highly trained observers on the West Coast. She looked worried, and she looked like she was trying to hide it. "Eric, if you would."

Eric spun in his seat and a collage of photos, bank records and maps soon appeared on the room's center screen. The team stepped forward, all business now, to hear the details of their latest assignment. Hetty began with an introduction. "Lady and gentlemen, this is Dr., excuse me, Commander, Robert Hutch..." Eric ducked his head in a failed attempt to cover a grin... "of the Naval Medical Center, San Diego...is there a problem, Mr. Beal?"

Eric turned red and began fiddling with his remote control. "No...no ma'am...it's just...Robert Hutch, Rabbit Hutch...it's nothing..." His attention moved fixedly back to the screen. "Commander Rabbit...I mean, Commander Hutch, brought this issue to the attention of NCIS." He pointed to the photo at the top left corner of the screen, which showed a very dead sailor on an autopsy table. "Seaman First Class Richard Boeing, Naval Special Warfare Training School, Coronado, died Thursday of an acute overdose of the painkiller Oxycontin during SEAL Hell Week training." Every head in the room swung to look at Sam, who gritted his teeth. To Sam, taking prescription pain killers during SEAL training (while understandable) was cheating.

Hetty broke in. "Commander Hutch believes that the drugs originated at NMC San Diego, probably in their Wounded Warrior Detachment." Everyone grimaced at that announcement. The Wounded Warrior units are staffed by men and women wounded in Afghanistan and Iraq. No one liked the idea of investigating sailors and Marines who'd already given so much. Moreover, the Wounded Warrior Detachment was likely to be a tight-knit group. It wouldn't be easy to infiltrate and gain the trust of a unit bound by their common tragedies.

Callen looked the Commander over. "Why do you think the drugs are coming from there?"

"After Seaman Boeing died, the hospital ran a full audit of its narcotics, since we're the closest military hospital to Coronado. Now, Oxycontin is strong stuff. It's also extremely addictive, so hospitals keep fairly close track of where the pills go. That said, we use a lot of it, especially in a place like the Wounded Warrior Detachment, where the patients are legitimately in a lot of pain."

Callen grunted. "Getting shot hurts."

Hutch nodded. "So I'm told. All that said, while the number of Warriors in the Detachment here has been going up a bit in the past six months, the number of tablets of high-grade narcotics dispensed has been climbing even faster." He pointed to a series of financial statements on the screen. "This is the pharmaceutical line-item budget list for the first and second quarters of 2010. We've got a few more patients in the Detachment because of the Surge, but the budgets for Percocet, Oxycontin, Oxycodone, Codeine…all the narcotics, has almost doubled in those same six months."

Sam spoke up. "Is any one doctor prescribing more than he was? Did you get anyone new in the pharmacy?"

"No. Nothing like that." Hutch shook his head. "In fact, the same amount of drugs is being prescribed as always has been." In answer to the confused looks he received, the doctor explained. "For guys with severe injuries, we give them a fairly wide prescription for narcotics. It usually says something like 'take one every four hours as needed for pain.' But most of the guys in the WWD are young, head-strong Marines. They usually don't take all of the meds we give them. I mean, do you?"

The assembled agents thought of their own medicine cabinets, half full of expired prescription bottles, and shrugged. "No," answered Kensi. "We just take what we need."

"Right. You take the meds until you feel better, and then maybe you stick 'em in a drawer until you get a migraine in a month or so. Maybe you even do what you're supposed to do and dispose of them properly." He looked around. The agents didn't meet his eyes. "Yeah. I don't either."

"So your Warriors aren't getting more drugs prescribed to them, they're just getting the prescriptions filled more often." Eric supplied.

Hutch nodded. "Yup. Where last Summer, we could expect a guy to get a prescription for 60 pills, fill half of it, swallow 15 pills over a few weeks and stick 15 in a drawer—and never even pick up the other 30 from the pharmacy, we're now seeing that same guy finish the whole 'scrip of 60, and maybe even asking for a refill. The problem is sorting out which of these Warriors are selling the extras and which are legitimately still in pain and taking the meds."

"So, that shouldn't be too hard to track down." Callen cut in. "Just find the guys who have been getting refills, and test their blood to make sure they're taking the meds. You're a hospital. Don't tell me you can't find opiates on a blood sample."

"We can, and we did." The doctor looked embarrassed. "They all came up positive."

Kensi looked confused. "You mean they all tested positive for opiates? Like they're all taking the pills? So there's your answer; the drugs aren't coming from the Wounded Warrior Detachment- they're taking their pills. Maybe someone told 'em they have to."

Eric spoke up again. "Yeah, it's not quite that easy, Kensi. Opiates are easy to fake on a drug test. Eat a bunch of poppy seeds and you'll fool the test."

Hetty's head turned a bit. "And we'll be talking about just how you knew that later." Eric blushed, mumbled something about 'Mythbusters' and looked anywhere other than at Hetty's stare.

"Wherever he learned it, he's right," stated Hutch. "The same chemical in the opium poppies that we test for is also in the kind of poppy seeds you've got in that morning pastry." He glanced significantly at the bagel in Sam's hand. Sam put it down. "We all eat them. We even put a poppy seed cake in some of the MRE's we feed the guys in the field with which'll trip the test. So what we need NCIS to do is to figure out who in the detachment is really taking more than the average amount of painkillers, and who is selling the narcotics and eating lemon-poppy seed muffins."

"So, what you really need," filled in Callen, "is a wounded warrior to stick in that detachment for a snoop around."

Hetty looked worried again. "Exactly, Agent Callen. We need a wounded warrior. Commander?"

Commander Hutch took a deep breath and looked straight at G. "When were you shot, agent?"

Callen's eyes widened, and he felt, rather than saw, his partner move to back him up. "May fifth, last year."

"Are the scars still fairly pronounced?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"That will make it easier to sell you as a wounded Marine, but you still need a current reason to be in the detachment. Something that is still causing you problems."

"Well, I'm fine, so we'll just have to pretend." He grinned. "I'm pretty good at pretending."

"Not good enough." Callen looked down toward the voice and was surprised to find Hetty patting his hand. When had she gotten so close? How did she do that? "Dr. Hutch here is a whistle-blower. None of the other doctors at NCMSD will know you're there undercover. You need to fool them, too."

"What do you want to do; shoot me again?" The question was said with Callen's patented sarcasm, but his discomfort was obvious to everyone in the room.

"No, of course not," Hutch looked horrified, "but there are wounds that are both harder to treat and impossible to see. I'm a neurologist. I suggested, and of course you can say no, that we create some symptoms of a closed-head injury. Specifically, blindness."

"You want me to fake being blind? That's not…"

"No, that wouldn't work. The optometrist would see through it immediately. But there are some medications which, when properly combined, will induce temporary blindness."

"You want to BLIND me?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, places or show you know and love. I'm just happy that the people who do own them let us take them out and play with them sometimes.

Thank you to my reviewers. The writers in this forum don't do it for the money—reviews make us dance.

**Chapter 2: Pieces on the Board**

"You want to BLIND me?"

"Not completely." Hutch, obviously out of his element in this highly-charged room, turned away from Callen and pulled an assortment of medicine bottles off the center console of the room behind him. He held up the first one. "These are Scopolamine drops. They're the same stuff that an optometrist gives you when you get your eyes dilated." He indicated a second bottle. "This is belladonna…"

"Belladonna's a poison." Sam scowled.

"Most medicinal drugs are also poisons." Nate interjected. "In small doses, tincture of Belladonna is used for irritable bowel syndrome and as a mild sedative. It does have two common side effects, though; blurry vision and dizziness."

The commander, thankful for Nate's explanation but still intentionally avoiding Sam's furious glare, looked directly at Callen. If Hutch had known G better, he would have been far more startled by the flat-out fear evident in the agent's eyes. Add that to the drops and this," he added a third bottle, "which is an antibiotic which will make your eyes sensitive to light,"

"And I'll be blind, dizzy and prone to headaches."

"Temporarily."

"Temporarily?" Although Callen's voice registered as 'angry' to the doctor, Sam felt the tension through a hand placed on his partner's shoulder. For him to betray even that much, Sam knew, Callen must be downright terrified. Callen leaned in toward the doctor. "How long is 'temporarily'? And how the hell am I supposed to find a drug dealer if I can't even see to keep myself…standing?" He'd almost said 'keep myself safe.' Almost.

The doctor took a small step backward, but found his escape blocked by the room's center console. "You will be able to see some. You'll see best inside, especially with dark sunglasses. And even in sunlight, you'll see blurs…" he trailed off. "When you stop taking the drugs, your sight will return to normal in a day or two."

Hetty, calmly in control as always, cut in. "The Director wants you to know that the decision to take this task on or not is completely up to you, G." She turned to Commander Hutch. "Full disclosure, doctor, before I can even ask Agent Callen to consider this ruse. What are the other side effects of these medications?"

"Decreased urination, a rise in blood pressure, dry mouth…" Nate began, but Hutch interrupted.

"But he'll be living in a hospital, and I'll be in primary control of his case. In the doses I'm suggesting, Agent Callen should be completely fine, unless…"

"Unless?" The small woman's eyebrows raised.

Commander Hutch turned to Callen. "You don't have a problem with high blood pressure or ulcers, do you?"

Nate's timely intervention had given Callen time to get his emotions back into the box where they belonged. He sounded more sarcastic than angry as he mumbled an answer to the doctor's question. "This job is gonna give me both."

Several minutes of planning followed as Callen set about assigning the dual tasks of seeking out the drug sellers and buyers while protecting Callen while he was…well…Sam suggested "helpless as a mewling baby", "blind like a naked mole rat" and "a sitting duck."

"I'm going to need someone at NMCSD with me to keep an eye on my blind side and so I can pass information out to all of you." Callen shook his head as Sam immediately opened his mouth. "No, Sam, we need someone over at Coronado, too, and I'm pretty sure Kensi can't make anyone believe she's a SEAL." He turned toward the dark-haired woman. "Sorry, Kenz, you're good, but not that good."

Kensi's face brightened. G didn't often give complements—not even back-handed ones. "So you want me at NMCSD with you?"

"No. I'm going to have to be living in the barracks if we're going to make this believable, so I can't be married, and we're not making you sick enough to join me in there." He raised his hand in a 'stop' signal as Kensi began what was undoubtedly a rant about how, if G was going to hurt himself, so could she. "No, Kensi. No one on my team is doing that. No way. You'll be a visitor, maybe my girlfriend; that'll give you enough access to the hospital that you won't get anyone upset, but you're not going to live in."

Sam was beginning to look worried. "Look, G. You do really need someone there full time. And Deeks is good for a rookie, but…" His eyes narrowed as he recognized the look on G's face.

Callen was smirking.

"What the hell are you thinking, G.?"

"Not Deeks." Callen walked, still smirking, toward the team's resident doctor. "Nate? You up for a little undercover time?"

Nate looked like he wanted to be anywhere other than square in Callen's sights. "Me? Callen, I'm not an agent."

"You are an agent. I've seen you around the office. I've seen your file. It says 'agent.'"

"It says 'agent,' but it's not really, like, agent-agent. I'm a psychological profiler, not a field agent."

Callen looked like he'd already won the argument. He grinned. "Right. Psychological profiler. As in 'psychologist.' As in, 'doctor.' As in, 'someone who can fit right in at a hospital, and to whom a guy with a head injury would talk all the time.'"

"'Whom'?"

"Shut up Sam." Callen spun on a heel to look Hutch directly in the eye. "Dr. Rabbit, could NMC San Diego use another board-certified, honest-to-God psychologist?"

Hutch grimaced at the name, then nodded. "Always."

Nate looked distinctly uncomfortable, torn between being secretly thrilled to be part of the team and outwardly terrified when Sam let him know EXACTLY what would happen to Nate if anything 'untoward' were to happen to Callen. There were parts of Nate's anatomy of which he was distinctly fond, and which seemed to be in some danger.

"So, it's settled then. Sam goes to Coronado to figure out how the drugs are getting into Hell Week; I go in to the Wounded Warrior Detachment, blind, and under the care of our whistle blowing neurologist and our psychologist-slash-agent, Nate; Kensi snoops around the visitors' areas of the hospital, looking out for me while looking for how the drugs are getting off NMCSD; and Deeks," he strode over to clap his hand onto Deeks' shoulder, "monitors the whole stupid enterprise and keeps Sam and me in communication across the bay." He looked around the room, oddly satisfied now that he'd made the decision. "OK. So, how 'bout we destroy my eyesight and leave me groping around like…"

"An old lady with too many cats and not enough sense?" Sam happily supplied.

Callen smirked again as he leaned his head back for the doctor to administer the eye drops. "Ice Ice Baby…OUCH!" His head snapped up. "You'd kick a blind man?"

"Hell yes."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, places or show you know and love. I'm just happy that the people who do own them let us take them out and play with them sometimes.

Again, thanks to my reviewers. I love to hear from you—good, (nicely stated) bad, and otherwise.

**Chapter 3: Places, everyone**

Sam was grumpy for the next few days. As the team planned and put the operation in motion, and as Callen acclimated to his recently narrowed senses, Sam became more and more unsettled. For three years, he'd had G's back—longer than either partner had ever worked with any other—and now, G was going into a possibly long-term operation, literally blind, without him. In short, Sam was as tense as a drawn bow, and the arrow had aimed squarely at…

"NATE!"

The psychologist's head snapped up from his research. He'd once said that he could see why someone Sam was chasing would choose to leap off of a building rather than be caught. He'd seen no reason to change that opinion. Too bad he was on the ground floor. He sighed. "Yes, Sam?"

"How long has it been since you were on the range?"

"The range? Like, the pistol range?"

"No, the driving range. Of course the pistol range. G's not gonna be able to hit the broad side of a barn if he needs to. You need to be ready to help him out."

"You mean 'help him out' by shooting someone? I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. Look, I know you're feeling…stressed…since you're not going to be able…" He looked over at Kensi and Callen, who were laughing their way through teaching Callen how to navigate the halls of the office using a long white cane. "I'm not sure I could actually, you know, kill someone. It's not that I wouldn't want to protect Callen, It's just I'm not sure…" He broke off in a horse whisper as Callen and Kensi turned toward them.

Sam gritted his teeth. "Get sure."

"Sam, ease up." Callen interjected, rescuing Nate before the big man could start yet another lecture about the importance of Nate becoming a fully trained field agent in the next three days. He pulled his partner aside. "Man, I know you hate this. I hate it too, trust me. I can't even tie my damned shoes without Kensi's help. But you're making everybody crazy. I need you to back me up here."

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"No. What you're trying to do is convince me that you need to be at NMCSD. That's not going to happen." He held out a hand to lean against the wall, misjudged the distance and stumbled. "Son of a…" He cleared his throat. "I wouldn't have requested Nate be there if I didn't think he could do what needs to be done. I need you to get him in good enough shape that he can operate in the field, which doesn't include you destroying all the confidence he's ever had. And then I need you over at Coronado, catching the bad guys so I can stop putting these damned drops in my eyes and walking into walls." Sam began to protest, but Callen waved him off. "OK, if the reasoned approach didn't work, then I'll try another tactic. Let's pretend like I'm the head agent of this team, and your boss, and I'm telling you what to do. Oh! Wait! I am your boss. And I'm telling you to get Nate up to speed and then get yourself down to Coronado to kick some SEAL trainee ass. You got it?"

"Yeah. I got it."

"Good. Now aim me toward the head. There are some things I don't want Kensi's help with. NATE! You'll be fine."

Sam got Callen moving in about the right direction, visibly collected himself, and went back to Nate. "You will be fine. And I've got us some time booked at the range at sixteen hundred." He walked off.

"Ahem," Nate looked down to find their diminutive operations manager staring up at him through her wide glasses. "If you would like some shooting tips, I have been known to enjoy the sport. Of course, the most important thing to remember is that no one is ever certain of how they will respond to the perceived need to commit violence until they are confronted with that need. Not even Sam."

The team 'in-processed' at their respective assignments on a Friday, which meant that (for everyone but Sam, for whom the only easy day seemed to have been Thursday) there was a weekend for the agents to get to know the lay of the land at each location. In Callen's case, this involved quite literally feeling out his environs.

Callen's roommate was a pretty officer who'd lost a hand and badly scarred his face when a mortar landed too close to the bridge he'd been building outside Kandahar. PO2 Davies was wearing a temporary prosthetic and looking forward to getting the permanent one now that he'd had his fifth and last surgery ("God help me it better be the last damned one."). Callen said the temporary one looked fine to him, but then admitted that these days he couldn't tell the difference between Hale Berry and Roseanne Barr, so he wasn't exactly an authority. "Best damned beer goggles in the world," he laughed.

"Man, I'm not sure I want goggles that good." Davies voice faltered as he answered a knock at their door. Then he continued, "'cause then I wouldn't know I was looking at this vision of loveliness! Can I help you ma'am?"

Kensi stepped into the room. "I'm looking for...oh, hi Greg! Guess I found you. Umm... can I use your bathroom real fast?"

Callen nodded. "Yeah, Kerry. First, meet D'shawn Davies. Davies, this is Kerry."

Davies smirked. "Hi," he replied, then waited for Kenzi to close the bathroom door and half whispered, "Roseanne my ass! Don't need beer goggles for that one!"

"So I'm told."

"Does she have a sister? Or a really young aunt?"

Kenzi used the facilities and then checked the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. She was unsurprised to find a half-full bottle of Percodan, prescribed to Davies. It was looking somewhat neglected, tucked behind the shaving gear and an obviously more commonly used bottle of Ibuprofen. Kenzi made a mental note to check out Davies' toxicology report. If the man was taking his narcotics, he wasn't taking much of them. She washed her hands and walked out of the bathroom.

After thirty minutes or so of small talk, Davies led the two agents on a tour of the Detachment's dormitory, introducing Callen ('The New Squint') to those members of the unit they came across. Lance Corporal James 'Orangutan' Orent was in a wheelchair (Davies introduced him as 'a gimp') since a roadside bomb had severed his spinal chord in Tikrit a year before. Private Richard Williamson was riding a desk-and not happy about it-until the doctors would clear him for other work. His burns would heal, and, he said with a smile at Kenzi, "Chicks dig scars." Gunnery Sergeant Elizabeth Ross, the only female Marine living in the dormitory at the moment, had crewed a medical helicopter in Afghanistan until a missile took out both the 'chopper and the rest of the crew. She wore a prosthetic left leg and had a haunted look in her eyes.

Kenzi and Callen left Davies chatting with PFC Steven Ervin (single gunshot through both upper thighs "in the right, out the left!") when G got too dizzy to continue the tour. Upon returning to G's room, Callen barely made the head in time to vomit his lunch into the toilet. Then he pulled the drops out of his pocket and resolutely placed one into each eye. Kenzi kept her mouth shut.

Sam's first day back at Coronado since he'd left the SEALs years ago was both a homecoming and a rude awakening. And speaking about awakenings...

"UP! UP! GET OUT! I want every one of you out of my damned racks in 5,4,3,2..." Sam groaned and rolled over, thankful that his training days were done, but wishing he didn't have to live in the same building as the current class. He didn't have to open his eyes to know what his alarm clock would read; Oh-dark-thirty. Doesn't matter what the 'dark' stood in for. Sam fought his way back to slumber as the newest class of wanabe SEALS thundered out of the barracks and into another day of torture. He smiled a bit at that thought as he drifted back to dreamland.

When he did get to his office (oh-dark-slightly-less-dark), his e-mails contained financial and training records for the dead trainee and some associates that Eric and Deeks had ferreted out the day before. Each of the five records was unremarkable. From what he could see in the training records, Sam figured that none of the group had any chance of passing the course—too slow, too clumsy, or too dumb—but that wasn't surprising, really. Few trainees ever passed this course. The only thing interesting in any of the financial records was how uninteresting they were. Sam flipped open his phone.

"Eric. How much do Oxycontin tablets go for these days?" 

"Seventy, Eighty bucks a pop. Why?" 

"I'm not seeing any indication of that kind of cash flow; not even from Boeing's accounts. A seaman first class just doesn't make a whole lot of money. He'd be hurting financially if he was paying seventy bucks for a fix." Sam stared at the records in front of him. "One of these guys must have had an outside source of income. You missed something, Eric."

Some people, when told they'd done their jobs wrong, would have been affronted. Eric knew better. He just laughed. "Yeah. No way. Unless your trainees are setting up Swiss accounts, you've got every piece of financial information there is on any of them."

"_Were_ they setting up Swiss accounts?"

"I doubt it." Eric hesitated, imagining the look on Sam's face. "But I'll check."

Sam hung up. Truth was, he doubted it, too. More likely than Eric missing something was that someone else was supplying the pills, and these guys had gotten them as freebies. Figuring out who that was would take some time. Even Eric couldn't check out all 100-plus trainees' financial records in a single day. Next track. Who among the trainees had a connection to someone at the hospital?

Deeks answered that question through the simplest of methods; he asked. No one was surprised by the knowledge that SEAL trainees ended up at the hospital regularly. The training routines are grueling, and broken bones, hypothermia and other injuries are common among trainees. The ER administrator did mumble, however, that this class seemed particularly accident prone. Deeks thanked her and passed both the files and the observation to the team.

Nate spent day one unpacking into his new office (real furniture, built in bookshelves, even a wall of windows—if he'd been in the market for a job, this wouldn't have been a bad place, but Nate had no interest in another job), and meeting his patients. Commander Hutch had decided that, whether or not Nate would be staying around, there is plenty for a psychologist to do at NMCSD. Nate had made sure that none of the cases assigned to him were from the WWD. Using something learned in a therapy session for a criminal case is not just unethical. It is illegal. Also, as far as Nate was concerned, it was just plain wrong.

He found, very quickly, that he would have enjoyed this job even without the fancy office. Treating veterans for PTSD is tough, worthwhile work, and even Commander Hutch had to admit that the tall, caring man was good at it.

I am sorry about the 'squint' and 'gimp' references, but I wanted to be true to the feel of a WWD. These guys tend to be really really close knit, and they actually refer to each other with names like squint, gimp, pegleg, and other pejoratives. No one outside their groups is welcome to use the names. I've worked with wounded warriors for years, and certainly would never use these names in real life. If I have offended, I apologize. I am humbled by the work and sacrifice of our veterans, and am proud to have served with you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, places or show you know and love. I'm just happy that the people who do own them let us take them out and play with them sometimes.**

**Thank you to my reviewers. The writers in this forum don't do it for the money—reviews make us dance.**

**Chapter 4: Casework**

The first real break in the case came as Callen picked his way half-heartedly through lunch the next day. He hadn't managed to keep down either dinner or much of breakfast, and wasn't looking forward to vomiting this meal, too. He could deal with the blindness—though feeling helpless woke him in a sweat at times—but the dizziness was going to kill him.

He'd carefully brought the conversation around to one of the WWD's favorite subjects; what successful former members of the detachment were doing now. He heard the standard hero stories; Boston Marathon runners with one (or no) legs, sky divers, the lucky few who had gone back to an approximation of their former lives. The conversation then moved on to where the current group was headed next.

"Williamson's the next out of the hospital, right?" Callen prompted. "Where's he headed?"

The group surreptitiously shot glances at one another. "SEALS," guffawed Orangutan, and the group controlled its snickering.

Callen grinned. "What's funny?"

Davies schooled his face to seriousness. "Nothing. It's just...have you seen the guy? Oh, yeah…well. He weighs about 80 pounds. No way that guy gets through SEAL training."

Orangutan stifled a laugh again. "Well, you know, unless they run out of trainees. Gonna need to fill those slots..." he stopped talking as he noticed the faces staring at him, then laughed again.

Ervin attempted to redirect the conversation. "Damned SEALS ain't worth the effort anyways. Think they're better than other people. I bet Williamson goes back to the fleet."

Callen pretended he hadn't gotten the visual 'shut up' cues—not a stretch, since his companions looked to him like blurry smudges of green and brown—and routed the talk to this subject of interest. "I don't know. I knew a good guy who always wanted to be a SEAL. Dude saved my life when I got shot. That guy's a good guy. Like a brother."

"Yeah, but you haven't seen him since you got here right?" Davies asked, suddenly serious.

"No, not since I got here," Callen answered truthfully.

"He's deployed?" Davies prompted.

"No, he's over at Coronado."

Orangutan nodded. "He might be a good guy, but if you haven't seen him since you got here, he's not your brother." He pointed around the table. "We're your brothers. No one else is going to understand..."

"OK," interrupted Davies, "no need to get whiny. He gets it. We all get it. You're just pissed because you like Ross."

Callen pretended mild interest. "What? Does Ross want to be the first female SEAL or something?"

Davis shrugged. "Nah, her ex-fiance is a trainee right now. Dude dumped her when she got hurt. Just stopped talking to her. You know how it goes." He glared at Orangutan, "but they're talking again now. He visits sometimes, too, and Orang's mad 'cause he wants the ex to clear out an make room for him."

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Callen recounted the conversation later that day in a conference call with the team from Nate's office. "He visits her when the training schedule lets him. When's the next training break, Sam?"

"Columbus day—mid month. They work, but get out at a normal time, and can get off post in the evening." Sam made a note to look up the sailor in question, Alfred DeSoto. "How you doing, G? You sound lousy."

"Yeah, but I'm looking fine!" G laughed. "Nate here is a good partner. Doesn't get in the way, doesn't bother me. I might just have to make some changes when this is all over."

"Yeah," grunted Sam, "you do that. Eric, did you check into those medical records Deeks pulled together?"

"Yup." Eric sounded smug. "Individually, the records weren't anything special. With the level of harshness in SEAL training, no one is surprised when a trainee breaks an ankle. But, that nurse's observation that it seems to be a really clumsy class this year? She was right. This class has had 61 percent more accidents than average. 64 percent more than the last class, which had the exact same instructors. Now, that could be a statistical anomaly—they could just be unlucky—but it's more likely that there's something wonky about this particular class."

"Like, they're all doped up on painkillers?" supplied Callen.

"Pain killers, especially narcotics, would definitely affect their coordination," Nate responded. "61 percent is a lot, though. They'd all have to be taking the stuff."

"Sounds like it's time for a thorough inspection of the barracks here." Sam grimaced. "Someone's got a stash, and they're messing with the whole class."

"Don't kill anyone, Big Guy."

Sam grunted and hung up.

Nate clidked the phone off and took a deep breath. "So, howwww you doooinnnng?" he drawled.

"Callen raised a warning hand. "Nate."

Nate pulled himself to his full, not inconsiderable, height. "Callen, don't shut me out. I don't care if you punch me for saying this. Well, OK, I do care. Don't punch me. But we need to talk. You're not fooling anyone. Not even Sam, and he's not even here. You're sure as heck not fooling me. I've never seen you so on edge. What's going on?"

"'Heck?'" Callen grinned. "You say 'heck'? Who says 'heck?'"

"Callen."

Callen sighed. "What the Hell do you want me to say, Nate?" The agen plunked himself into a chair, seeming to deflate. "I hate this case. I hate everything about it."

"Is it the blindness specifically?" Nate probed, "You've been practically shaking since that doctor suggested it. Is it that bad? What do you actually see?"

"What question do you want me to answer first, 'cause there were a bunch of 'em in there and I want to be done with this chat as soon as possible."

"Callen." Nate is slow to anger, but he was angry now. Callen gave in.

"Blurs. I see blurs. Inside, like now, they're pretty descipherable. Like, I can see you moving, and I know you're wearing a grey suit and either a blue or green shirt. Nice, by the way. Out in the halls under the lights, or, worse, outside, it's all one big, bright mess. I can't tell one person from the next, and these guys in uniform—I can't tell them apart from the trees until they move. My depth perception is all wrong, so I keep walking into stuff I think is far away, and I'm so dizzy from the meds that I can't eat." Callen was on a roll now, and Nate sat quietly, knowing G would get around to the problem eventually. "Kensi's a big help while she's here, but at night when you go back to your barracks and she's home it's just me in that damned closet staring at the dark blurs and listening to Davies snore. And I'm hungry!" He ran down.

There was a few seconds' silence before Nate quietly interjected "closet?"

"Huh?"

"You said you spend the nights in a 'damned closet.'"

"My barracks room. The damned this is as small as a closet."

"You said 'closet.' You spend nights in a dark closet. You didn't say room."

"We're done, Nate."

Nate sat back in his desk chair. His team-mate's gates were firmly closed again. They'd talk later.


	5. Chapter 5

**I can only wish that I owned the NCIS franchise. But I don't, or anything close to it in scope. So it's really not worth suing me. I have no money.**

**Chapter 5: Investigation**

Sam wouldn't have admitted it if asked, but 'tossing' the trainees' barracks is kind of fun. The situation was serious—one man had already died and the number of accidents this class was having strongly implied that more casualties were on their way—but the act itself? Sam stifled a smile and knocked over a trainee's footlocker, scattering its contents across the floor. Tossing a barracks is like being a three-year-old again, and having no one tell you to pick up the mess you've made when you're done.

The inspection had actually begun a full week earlier, when Sam had pulled in a favor and had any foods with poppy seeds removed from the base's mess halls. The trainees were then restricted to their training area, which prevented any of them from buying bagels or muffins at the base commissary or exchange. Saturday evening, all SEAL trainees lined up to pee in a cup. This type of 'random' drug testing is common enough in the US military that not one man questioned it. Not one tested positive for narcotics, either. Oh, well.

On Monday afternoon, Columbus Day, the class members who had earned time off were given passes to leave the base. The others were sent on a 10 mile run followed by a mile long swim in the Pacific Ocean. That left plenty of time for their cadre to search the entire barracks, stem to stern. And to make a mess. Sam looked under a trainee's mattress, then grinned evilly and tipped over the bed. He schooled the smile off his face again, thankful once more that his training days were over.

"What the Hell is this?" One of the other cadre asked as he stood, holding a case of small, red and black bottles. "Is this guy main-lining energy drinks? How many does DeSoto need?"

Sam walked over and lifted one of the bottles from the case, careful not to touch any of the others. It was about the size of a shot glass, red and black, and had a 'tamper-proof' strip of red paper tape running from one side, over the twist-off cap, to the other. There was no way anyone could have put something into the bottle without breaking the tape, but Sam's instincts were still telling him that something was wrong. He laughed, then suggested the group should celebrate their find. When the trainees returned to their room, they found that it had been thoughtfully destroyed, and they also found a rather impressive 2-foot-high pyramid of tiny red and black bottles right in the center of the room. No one had noticed Sam slipping three of the bottles into his pocket with a gloved hand.

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Kenzi met with Nate and Callen the following morning in Nate's office.

"Did you see him?" asked Kenzi without preamble. "The guy is bigger than Sam!"

Callen raised his eyebrows. "No, I can't say I saw him. Or, you know, much of anything."

"Right. Kenzi grimaced. "I forgot. So, yeah, DeSoto was here. He spent a couple of hours hanging out with Ross and a couple of the other members of the detachment over by the gym."

"Orangutan?"

"Yeah, and Davies, and Williamson for a bit. DeSoto is HUGE."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah. I said 'hello' to the guys and Ross, and they introduced me. I hung out with them for a while, tried to get DeSoto talking about the training. Davies was showing off his new hand." She shuddered a bit. "It's actually kind of creepy how real those things look. Cool, but creepy."

"If it looks real enough, it's possible for the guys to think of it as an arm, not a machine," Nate supplied. "Makes them feel whole again, or as close to whole as is possible. And from a distance, the good ones just look like a hand or arm or leg—not like a prosthetic. They don't get stared at as much."

"Still looks creepy up close," Kensi mumbled.

"We're getting off track here," Callen interjected. "Did any of them give anything to DeSoto?"

"No, but he did go to the mess hall with Ross and Williamson and grabbed some chow. They could have given something to him there if they wanted to. Davies went back to his room. After dinner, DeSoto said goodbye to Ross and got into his car and left. I didn't see her pass anything to him, and I was looking."

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At Coronado as each trainee returned from his afternoon off, he was greeted by a member of the cadre, who had him turn out his pockets for inspection. None was carrying contraband, but some had done some shopping while off base. DeSoto had a six-pack of small, red bottles in a bag from 7-11. The instructor who found them laughed. "I'm not sayin' you can't drink that stuff, man, but you keep suckin' 'em down the way you are and your balls are goin' to shrivel up and you head's gonna explode."

DeSoto grinned, then headed into the wrecked barracks.

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On Tuesday, Callen couldn't get out of bed. The nausea and dizziness had won. He decided to wait a day to let his head rest without the eye drops "Or I'm going to puke all over Nate's suit." Kenzi attended the team conference call in Nate's office, then headed to Callen's room to brief him. She waved at Davies as she left Nate's office and he waved back. _'Nate's right,' _she thought _'From any distance, the prosthetic looks like a real hand. Maybe more cool than creepy.'_

Kensi knocked on Callen's door and he hollered at her to enter. Inside, Kenzi found G flat on his bunk, one arm across his face and a (thankfully empty) bucket at his side. "What have you got?" He prompted, forestalling questions.

"We have a source!" Kenzi was relieved. Progress meant this assignment should end soon. "Eric tested the energy shots Sam found at Coronado, and they tested positive for opiates."

"Not exactly the kind of pick-me-up the makers intended. How did they get it in without breaking the safety seal?"

Kensi smiled. "Easy. These drinks don't come with a tape strip seal. The Tamperer must have crushed some Oxycontin tablets into dust, dissolved them in water, and then used a syringe to inject the solution through the cap of the bottles. The tape strip was actually added afterword by the tamperer to cover the hole that the syringe left behind."

"Well syringes are easy enough to come by around here. Still no way to know who's been fixing the bottles, but at least we know how the drugs are getting into Coronado."

"Ross and Williamson both had the opportunity."

"Yeah, so did Davies and Orangutan, but none of them is making any money. And you said neither of them gave anything to DeSoto when he was here. Has he been picked up for questioning?"

"He should be at the boathouse by now."

"Who's talking to him, Deeks? Renco?"

"Hetty."

"Hetty?"

"Yup." Kensi smiled evilly.

"What I wouldn't pay to see that."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: If you recognize the person or the set, it's not mine. I am thankful, however, that the creators of NCIS:LA let their fans play with their creations.**

**Chapter 6: Interrogation **

Petty Officer Third Class Alphonso DeSoto would have been at least 6 feet, 6 inches tall were he standing up. His chest was almost as wide as Hetty Lange was tall. Right now, though, the SEAL trainee was looking nervously at the diminutive, bespectacled woman sitting across the table from him. Hetty hummed as she shuffled papers.

When Hetty looked up, it was to say "Bach. Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. I've always felt that the classics were best for clearing one's mind."

DeSoto stared at her, at a loss as to how to answer that statement. "Um. OK. Yeah, I guess."

"Morphine is not a good way to clear your mind, young man."

His mouth hung open, and the trainee looked utterly lost. "No ma'am" he finally said, since the woman obviously was waiting for a response, and 'yes-' or 'no ma'am' had always been fairly safe things to say.

"And it's expensive. Not just fiscally. It can cost dearly to one's health. Like poor Seaman Boeing. What a tragic loss. What a tragic accident." She waited again, her eyes locked intently upon the large man.

"Seaman Boeing, ma'am?"

Hetty nodded slightly. "Mm hmm."

DeSoto's mouth moved silently as he tried out a few potential responses to this small woman's cryptic, and seemingly random, statements. After a minute or so, he settled on "Um, who?" asked in a voice that could only be described as 'lost at sea.'

Hetty produced a photo from the scrupulously neat stack of papers in front of her. "Seaman First Class Richard Alan Boeing. Don't tell me you don't remember him."

The SEAL trainee picked up the photo, recognition finally settling in his eyes. He looked relieved. "Oh—Rick!" He sounded relieved, too. "That's that trainee who had a heart attack in Hell Week a month or so ago. Ma'am, I didn't really know him. He was only in the barracks for that week, and we only talked a few times."

"And shared a drink." Hetty prompted.

"A drink?" DeSoto shook his head. "Uh uh. No way. The Cadre would have killed us both. No alcohol during training. Not even any cigarettes." The situation seemed to register, at long last, to the man. His arrest, his detention by NCIS in this room, and now his questioning. "He didn't have a heart attack, did he ma'am."

"No."

"So, why…" his eyes widened. "I swear I didn't give him any alcohol. I haven't had a drink myself in weeks. I barely knew the guy."

Hetty stood suddenly and silently and paced toward the sailor. DeSoto leaned back in his chair. Hetty then turned and walked out of the room without a word, not even looking at the huge man. Once outside, she phoned Eric, then waited while the tech conferenced in Nate, Kensi, Callen and Sam on the call. She recounted the short conversation.

"He doesn't know that the drinks are laced." She stated.

"Maybe he does know," answered Kensi, "but he's playing you. Pretending like he doesn't even know what he's been accused of."

"My dear," Hetty broke in, "Sydney Portier wasn't that good a liar. And I should know. PO3 DeSoto is not aware of the contents of his little bottles. Someone's playing with our little SEAL, perhaps with the intent of removing him from the program."

"Who?" barked Sam. The trainees should only be abused by the Cadre.

"He was here at the hospital yesterday." Kensi answered. "The logical answer is, he got the drugged bottles here on NMCSD. But I watched him the whole time." Kensi and G heard a 'click' as the doorknob turned and someone began to enter G's room. Kensi's voice changed in an instant, no longer all business. "and the little guy didn't even drink a bottle. I mean, his baby sitter never even gave him one. He seemed just fine."

Davies entered the room and looked quizzically at Kensi, then nudged Callen. G groaned. "What?"

"What? Does Kerry have a kid?" Davies whispered to G, as Kensi moved toward the door, as if to continue her conversation in private.

"Yeah," Callen answered, thinking about the statement that Kensi had used to cover her meaning from Davies while still making herself understood by the agents on the line. "She's got a baby son."

"Shit. He yours?"

"Nah. From before I got back from the sandbox. Before I met Kerry."

"Huh." The other man looked up as Kensi finished her phone conversation. "What's your boy's name?"

"Steven." Kensi sat on the room's only chair and smiled at Davies. "That new hand looks pretty real."

"I know." He looked at the prosthetic. "Spooky, huh?"

"A little, but kind cool, too. When I saw you sitting out showing it to that SEAL guy yesterday, you know, from a distance? It looked like a totally real hand. Greg—you should have seen this SEAL guy, by the way. He was enormous. What was his name, Davies?"

"Al DeSoto." Davies stood, his face now a thundercloud. "Well, I'll give you two some privacy." Without another word, the man walked from the room.

"Well, that was sudden." Commented G, as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pressed speed-dial 1.

"Sam. Take a look at the new bottles DeSoto brought back yesterday. Check if they have the tape safety seals."

"Already did, and no, they do not. Eric's got 'em at the moment. You thinking they're not laced?"

"That's what I'm thinking. Have Hetty ask DeSoto specifically where he gets his little bottles normally. Then have her call me. If we can figure out who gave him the bottles with the tape, and who gave him the ones without, we'll have a pretty good idea of where the drugs are coming from. I'll see if I can get DeSoto's supplier to move quietly to Nate's office for the arrest. We'll try to keep this as low-key as possible. This group is pretty protective of its own."

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And hour later, Hetty calmly returned to the interview room and placed two bottles of energy drink on the table in front of DeSoto. One had a tape seal on it, the other did not. DeSoto reached for one, stopping when Hetty stated "I wouldn't. One of those bottles is poisoned." DeSoto blinked. Hetty continued, "Where did you get them?"

"These are mine? Wait, someone poisoned my drink?" he paused. "And someone poisoned Rick Boeing. And you think…NO WAY. I DID NOT KILL RICK BOEING. Shit. Poison? Why the Fuck would someone try to poison Rick or me? We're nobodies!"

"That's what we're here to find out." She tapped the bottle without the seal. "You brought this one back to Coronado with you yesterday. Where did you get it?"

"Yesterday? At a 7-11 outside the base. I bought a whole pack of them. The guy in there was some Arab dude. You think he's trying to kill sailors? It might work. We chug those drinks like crazy. That…"

Hetty calmly continued, pointing daintily to the second, sealed bottle. "And this one was in your barracks already. Do you buy all of the drinks at 7-11, or maybe from somewhere else?"

"I don't usually buy them at all. Don't really have to. Most of the time, my girl gives me some as a gift. Her and her friends, they know I love the stuff, but they didn't have any at her BX yesterday, so I just stocked up on my drive back to base. Is this terrorism, ma'am?"

"I doubt it. I suspect it's simply the actions of a spurned lover." She picked up her cell, pressed the speed dial for Callen, and reported, "It's Ross. Have you got her?" In front of Hetty, DeSoto's jaw dropped as his face went first white, then fiercely red.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: They're not mine…wish that they were. Thanks to the creators of all of my favorite shows for letting me play in their worlds in a little tiny way.**

**Thanks also for my reviewers. You make me eager to check my e-mail. I mean, like, all the time.**

**Chapter 7: Ross**

"I'll find her, then take her to Nate's office." Callen responded. "Let him know I'm coming." He hung up the phone, and then instructed Kensi to find Nate and get him to his office. Kensi nodded and went to find Nate.

Callen found Ross as she was leaving the gym, her hair still wet from her shower. She was using a cane. Either she'd had a hard workout, or Callen simply had never been able to see the stick before he'd taken a break from putting those horrible drops in his eyes. With that thought, he realized that his eyes really were clearing. Time to start taking the meds again. Ick.

G angled himself toward the Marine, "mistakenly" tangling her cane with his long white one, then tripped and fell in a heap.

"Oh, Jesus, Greg, I'm sorry." Ross said, trying to untangle herself from him. G's clumsy movements didn't help the process. "Man. Geez. Just…STAY STILL."

G sat still, bringing tears to his eyes with practiced ease. Ross righted both of them before she noticed.

"I'm really sorry Greg. Seriously. Everything's OK. No harm done."

G smiled half-heartedly through his tears. "yeah." He shrugged. "I'm sorry Liz. You must think I'm a total baby. It's just so frustrating, you know?"

"Yeah. No kidding." She looked around. "So… Where you headed?"

"Um. I've got an appointment, but I'm sorta lost. Again."

"Who's the appointment with?"

"That new shrink." Again with the ease that came from years of experience dissembling, G blushed a bright red. "You know how it goes."

"Roger that. You're one floor too low. The psych's offices are right above us. Let me walk you there."

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They arrived in companionable silence, but when Ross attempted to leave G at Nate's office door, Callen maneuvered her inside. He drew his badge reluctantly. "Elizabeth Ross, I need to ask you a few questions about Seaman Richard Boeing." Nate and Kensi stood as they entered, and then grew very still at the coldness of G's approach.

For a moment, Ross froze too. Then, "What? What the f_ is this?" Her head swung right and left as she took in the scene. "Who the f_ are you?"

Nate stepped forward, trying to calm the situation. "We're with NCIS. We just need to talk with you."

"Forget that Nate." G's tone was cool enough to freeze salt water. "Drop the kid gloves. She's a Marine, and as far as I can tell, she's a murderer." He gestured curtly to Ross. "Have a seat, Marine."

"What are you talking about—MURDER? Who the Hell is murdered?" Kenzi took the woman firmly by an arm and led her to Nate's couch. Ross tensed, but she sat.

"Seaman Richard Boeing, Naval Special Warfare Training Center, Coronado. Now, I know he wasn't your target, but that only means we MAY be able to reduce the charges to second degree murder." G sat opposite Ross on an armchair. "Maybe. If you tell us all about it."

Ross tried to stand. Kensi's hand on her shoulder restrained her.

"Get your hands off me. I didn't kill anyone. I don't even know that guy."

Nate spoke quietly, but his calm voice cut through the atmosphere in the room easily. "He worked with Al DeSoto. They were in the same class."

Ross looked confused, but didn't try to rise again. "He's a SEAL?"

"He WAS as SEAL trainee." Confirmed Callen. "He died. Hence the murder thing."

"Are you saying Al killed him?"

"No. Not Al. You. But you used Al to do it. The poison wasn't strong enough to kill a big guy like Al, but you didn't think he'd share."

"Poison? Why would I want to poison Al? I love Al."

G shook his head. "No, you DID love Al. We know he dropped you when you got wounded. And that made you angry."

"Hell Yeah, it made me angry," Ross confirmed, "but Al, he was scared, not mean. He got over it, and he apologized. We're working through it. He's a good guy. I love him." The marine started to get agitated, looking from one to another of the agents. "I wouldn't kill him. We're working it out. Even talking about..." Her face went blank as full realization finally set in. "Someone tried to kill Al." The statement was made in a solid, ominous tone.

Nate leaned back on his desk. "Any idea who that someone might be?"

"I'm going to kill that bastard." Again Ross began to rise, and again she was restrained by Kensi. "Let go. I'm going to kill him. I don't need your help. We take care of our own here. I'm going to take care of Orang."

"Orangutan?" G asked, rising. "Why Orangutan, do you think?"

"Can't you see, _agent,_" she spat the word, "or are you really blind? Orang has been trying to convince me to drop Al for months. And every time Al's here, Orang won't leave us alone. He just…I'm going to kill him."

G shook his head. "We can't let you do that."

"Why the Hell not?"

Again, Nate was the voice of reason. "First, because it would be illegal, but second, because we can't be sure Orang was involved. All we know right now is what Al told us. And what Al says points pretty firmly at you."

Kensi broke in, "So you need to tell us why we shouldn't arrest you right now."

"What? Because I didn't do anything! What the F_ did Al tell you I did?"

G's voice was quiet this time. "Tell me about oxycontin."

"Oxy? It's a painkiller."

"I already know that. Tell me how it wound up inside Al DeSoto's energy drinks. The ones you gave him when he came to visit."

"Energy drinks? You mean those little caffeine shots he likes? He guzzles the things. Sometimes I see them at the PX and grab 'em for him, but sometimes one of the guys will too. Everyone knows he likes those things."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Kensi, Nate, G and the rest are not my creations, though I wish they were. They belong to people far more creative than I.**

**To Rakscha—I wrote this a couple of weeks ago. I'm glad you asked for it. Now, it's dedicated to you. Thank you for your constructive criticism.**

**Chapter 8: the Closet**

Kensi escorted Ross to her car for a trip to the boathouse and a discussion about why Ross needed to keep their investigation quiet, leaving Callen and Nate in a suddenly silent office.

"Callen?" Nate started, in what G always thought of as Nate's 'shrink voice.' There was no response from the agent. "Callen. G. G!"

"What, Nate?" Sighed Callen.

"You're ripping the upholstery off of my chair."

G removed his hand from the arm of the seat he was subconsciously dissecting. "huh."

"Is it time to talk about this?"

Callen sighed again. "Yeah." He put his hands to his temples, rubbing them in soothing circles. "OK. Yeah. What's the plan?"

Nate sat on the couch that Ross had vacated, his hands spread. "No plan. You talk, I listen."

"To what?"

"To what's been making you so crazy on this assignment. I've never seen you so out of balance about a cover before."

Callen 'harrumphed' and smiled sardonically, leaning back in the chair. "I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to say 'crazy.'" He lifted his hands, forestalling the inevitable prompting from the profiler. "I'm not stalling. I'm just figuring out where to start here. Give me a sec." Nate remained silent. He knew that G was ready. All he had to do was wait.

_Callen was 8 years old when he discovered the safety of the closet._

_It was raining that day. G hated the rain, not because of the gray damp or the cold, but because G Callen had very few clothes. He was currently wearing what he privately thought of as 'outfit number 4,' which consisted of one of his two pairs of jeans, a blue t-shirt, and a grey sweatshirt that said 'Darben Middle School' on the front. He owned five t-shirts and one other sweatshirt, all of them hand-me-downs or donations to California Child and Families Services. He had no idea where Darben Middle School was. As G trudged home from school, he knew that his sweatshirt was getting soaked beyond his ability to dry it on the radiator, and that his jeans were getting muddy. He'd have to do laundry tonight, which meant he'd have to spend a fair amount of time in his foster family's kitchen. G tried to keep to his room when at any foster home. The kitchen wasn't safe._

_G arrived 'home' to find his foster mother already sitting at the kitchen table, a small television on the counter blaring some after school special, and a glass of wine in her hand. A mostly empty bottle of wine sat beside her. G smiled his best smile ('smile number 1'; ingratiating, shy and sweet), and asked Mrs. Reed how her day was. Mrs. Reed answered with 'smile number 15'; drunk and distracted._

"_Um," Callen smiled, "can I use the washer tonight? I gotta clean some clothes."_

"_May you use the washer?" smiled Mrs. Reed, "to wash some clothes?"_

"_Um, may I use the washer to wash some clothes?"_

"_Stand up straight and don't say 'um.'"_

_G pulled himself to his full, 8-year-old height. "May I use the washer to wash some clothes, Mrs. Reed?"_

"_Yes you may. I have clothes in the dryer right now. Before you wash your clothes, fold mine." Her 'motherly' tasks taken care of, Mrs. Reed went back to watching the TV. _

_Callen went to his room to change into dry clothes and gather his laundry. In a minute or two, the boy returned, holding most of his worldly possessions in his arms—three t-shirts, two sweatshirts, and a pair of soggy jeans—and wearing most of the rest. He placed the small pile in the washer, and then opened the dryer to remove Mrs. Reed's laundry and fold it. Mrs. Reed poured herself another glass of wine. _

_For an eight year old, G Callen was very good at folding laundry. In fact, he'd learned to perform most household chores carefully, holding 'smile number 1' throughout to show his goodwill and fervent desire to please his foster parents. But today, he was cold, and tired, and his bare feet slipped on a puddle he'd dripped from his clothes on the way in. He watched in horror, 'smile number 1' slipping from his face even as Mrs. Reed's white blouse slipped from his hands. And knocked over the bottle of wine. And spilled red wine across Mrs. Reed, the blouse, and the tablecloth. He froze. Later in life, he'd instinctively duck at these moments, and this is where he learned the habit._

_Mrs. Reed saw the stains, screamed "You stupid brat!" and kept screaming as she picked up the wine bottle, and swung out at her foster son. The bottle connected with G's left temple, and he saw stars. The room swam. He tasted blood and wine as they mingled, dripping down his face. And then he ran. _

_Fighting rising nausea and blinking to try to clear suddenly cloudy vision, the boy scrambled for the stairs. He could hear Mrs. Reed, still screaming about the mess in her kitchen, but he didn't even try to look back. His heart raced as G lurched up the stairs, and practically crawled to the room he'd been staying in, groping dizzily for the doorknob before he emptied his lunch on the bedroom floor. His vision narrowed to pinpoints and wave after wave of nausea gripped him. Callen crawled to the closet, closed the door behind himself, and huddled in the corner, holding his aching head._

Agent G Callen took a deep breath and stilled his hands, which were once again pulling the fabric free of Nate's office chair. He tried 'smile number 2' (ingratiating, sardonic, cute). "Aren't you glad you asked?"

Nate was silent a few moments before asking gently "How long were you in the closet?"

"Three days."

"Three days? Tell me about it. Did Mrs. Reed follow you?"

"Not at first…"

_The sounds from the kitchen eventually overrode the pounding of Callen's blood in his own ears. Mrs. Reed was yelling words now, rather than the inarticulate screeching which had been her initial reaction to Callen's childish clumsiness. Callen's head was swimming so hard that she couldn't understand the words, but that there were two voices yelling was obvious. Mr. Reed was home. Mrs. Reed was telling the story her way. G knew he wouldn't try to rebut any story his foster mother told. It was never worth the time._

_Minutes passed. G heard footsteps on the stairs, and then in the hall outside his bedroom door. The door opened and "S_." Mr. Reed exclaimed, then shouted "He PUKED!" In the closet, G gripped his head in both hands as the shout reverberated through his skull. He must have made a sound._

_Two steps. The closet door swung open, and G saw glaring light, blindingly bright. He tried to look up at this foster father but all he could see was a bright blur. He grabbed his head again and huddled closer to the wall. He heard Mr. Reed curse again, and the closet door closed. The darkness was a relief._

_Time passed. He heard someone clean up the vomit on the bedroom floor, heard a mumbled conversation as Mr. and Mrs. Reed decided "what to do with the kid." He didn't hear the conclusion, but they must have agreed to wait and see what 'the kid' did, because they left the room and hours went by. G dozed off. When he woke, the house was quiet. G slowly opened the closet door to a dark bedroom. He tried to stand, and fell backward onto his rump dizzily. His stomach heaved. He closed the door again._

_He'd emerged again sometime in the middle of the night, struggled to the bathroom, and sipped some water from the cup he used for rinsing his teeth. His stomach didn't seem to object, so he sipped some more. Thinking he'd wash the blood off his face, the boy switched on the light. LIGHT! BLUR! PAIN! He switched the light back off, grabbed the cup of water and struggled back to his closet._

Back in the present, G leaned forward, his head in his hands as a wave of nausea hit his grown-up self. "Two days later, someone from the school figured out I hadn't been in and sent a social worker to the house. She found me in the closet and took me to the hospital. By then, the concussion had mostly self-resolved and my eyesight was coming back. Apparently, the Reeds hadn't reported anything wrong."

"They were afraid they'd get in trouble?" prompted Nate.

"Yeah."

"And now?"

"The blurry vision, the semi-blindness, the light sensitivity, the nausea…it's all eerily similar. But you'd guessed that." Nate nodded. "I hate this cover, Nate." Nate nodded again. "Are you going to say anything?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, something. What do you think? Am I cured?" G snorted, back to the safety of his sarcasm.

"I think," Nate stated bluntly, "that you spend way too much time in closets." He considered, then continued more gently, "Can you continue in this cover?"

"Yeah." G said, resigned. Then he took the bottle of medication from his pocket and resolutely placed a drop in each eye.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I gain no financial benefit from my stories. The creators of NCIS and NCIS:LA have my respect and admiration.**

**When I wrote this, it was to be my last chapter, but I'm thinking I may write an epilogue now. Maira the Panda—maybe in the epilogue there will be cane smackage; wish I'd thought of that! **

**Thank you to all who have read and thanks especially to those who reviewed.**

**Chapter 9: Action**

The conference call in Nate's office was noticeably more subdued than usual the next morning. "So we're basically back where we started?" Huffed Sam.

"No." Callen replied, more sharply than he probably should have. Sam's frustration was wearing on the senior agent. "We're two steps closer—we know this is about murder, not drug dealing, and we know it wasn't Ross. Motives for murder are pretty slim."

"Right" Nate filled in. "Love, Hate, and Money. None of these guys has any money, so that one's out. We've got Love on two sides, and with Ross out of the running, that leaves Orang."

"And Hate?" growled Sam.

"That's your file," replied G. "Take a look around at DeSoto and Boeing both. You and Deeks need to find out if anyone's got a reason to dislike either one of them. We still don't know who the target really was, but I'm betting it was DeSoto."

"And you?"

"I'm going to have a very quiet talk with the Orangutan."

The team was well aware that they couldn't simply bring one member of the WWD after another in for questioning; it wouldn't be long before someone took offense and talked to someone else about it. The press would have a field day with news of an operation like this in one of the Wounded Warrior units. Callen resolved to speak carefully with Orangutan socially, trying to feel the man out before repeating the move to Nate's office. He couldn't say anything which could be construed as unconstitutional questioning, but he could at least get an idea of how upset Orang was about Ross's relationship with DeSoto. He left Kensi with Nate and tapped slowly down the hospital corridors, looking for the wounded sailor. He passed Davies in the hall a few minutes later, and thought briefly _'I'm going to have to talk to him next.' _That one would be pretty easy at least. He could chat with Davies tonight, while they were readying for a night's rest. It would be easy to turn the evening's conversation to Ross, then DeSoto. "Hey man."

"Hey." Davies answered, confusion foremost in his voice. "Didn't I see you with Kerry?"

"Yeah…she's around here somewhere. I was actually just looking for her." He laughed ruefully. "I find it kinda hard to find anyone, you know? If you see her, could you tell her I'm looking?"

"Yeah." Now the man sounded angry. Weird. "I'll tell her."

NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA

Callen literally ran into Orang at the turn of a corridor. "Whoa, Jeez, where did you come from?"

Orang righted both of them with a laugh. "New Jersey. You?"

Callen couldn't help but laugh, too. The Orangutan was incorrigible, and moreover, he'd given Callen an easy opening. "Me? I'm a local boy. Grew up right here. Used to spend weekends at Coronado beach, watching the SEAL trainees get tortured by their cadre."

"Yeah? Huh. Didn't know they did that in public."

"Oh, they do. It's kind of a tourist attraction around here. Maybe some day I'll even see it again." He allowed his voice to dwindle, as if in thought. "Anyway, I'm headed to the beach this afternoon. Even if I can't see the craziness, I still love the sun. It's a California thing." Actually, G thought, the beach right now would be seriously painful; his eyes did better in the dark than in bright sunlight. If he could get Orang to come with him, though, the man might open up. Especially if he could arrange with Sam to have a group of trainees trot by. They really do use the beach for training sometimes. No one would think it too out of the ordinary…

Orang bit. "Watching SEALS beat each other up sounds like fun. Mind if I tag along?"

"Hey, if you drive, you can come with me any time. I have to take the bus."

"Man, that sucks."

They had just arranged a time to meet when Callen's cell phone rang.

NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA NCIS:LA

Davies was visibly shaking when he burst into Nate's office ten minutes after seeing Callen in the hall. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing!" He shouted at Kensi and Nate. "I see you even if Greg can't!" With his good hand, the sailor pulled a 9mm pistol from the waistband of his pants. As he held it pointed unerringly at Kensi, his voice lowered into a determined tone. "If you can't handle being attached to one of us WARRIORS when we get a bit dinged up, then do us the favor of telling us and getting the Hell out of our lives. You don't want to be with Greg? Fine. Your loss, but you tell him and you leave." His voice raised feverishly again as he swung the gun to point at Nate. "You don't get to go around flirting with that damned SEAL wannabe…or this SOB head shrinker while Greg is stumbling around out there looking for you. Are you trying to make him look like an idiot?"

Kensi and Nate backed slowly away from the agitated man, their hands in front of them in a non-threatening posture. Nate's back touched the wall and Kensi began moving slowly to join him behind the office desk—the only (minimal) cover in the room.

"D'Shawn," Kensi began, "this is not what you think…"

"Don't tell me it's not what I think! I know what it is! STOP MOVING!" Kensi froze, still a good ten feet from the psychologist. "You!" he pointed the 9 mil at Nate again. "Sit down!" Nate sat in his desk chair. "You move, I'll shoot you." Davies swung back to Kensi. "You and me are going to have a talk with Greg. Right now. You got a cell phone?" Kensi nodded. "Good. Call him. He's looking for you. Get him down here."

Kensi withdrew her cell from a pocket and planned a call—not to Callen, but to the NCIS offices.

Eric answered. "Yellow?"

"Greg?" Kensi asked tentatively, praying that Eric would get the idea. He did, quickly conferencing in Callen while he asked, "Kelly? What's up?"

"Put it on speaker!" Davies yelled, spittle beginning to spray from his lips, his hand twitching as he pointed the pistol first at Nate and then at Kensi.

"Greg, I really need to talk to you." Kensi said, begging in her mind that Callen would be on the phone quickly. She was relieved to hear G's voice next.

"Is something wrong, Kelly?"

"Um, your roommate is here. He's really, really insisting that I talk to you." Eric pressed the Mute button on his phone while he checked Kensi's location on GPS, then dialed the base's Shore Police to ask for backup. Kensi's voice, plus dialing through Eric, meant that something was seriously wrong. Unfortunately, it would take some time to get the SP's to Nate's office. He hoped the agents could solve whatever was going on before then.

Callen tried to sound concerned but not panicked as he replied, "Sure, what's wrong? Is D'Shawn OK?" thinking, "Are you OK?"

"Oh, Um, everybody's fine here. D'Shawn, me, that psychologist you like so much," Callen immediately turned down the corridor of the hospital, headed back to Nate's office. "But, um, D'Shawn is really upset."

"I'm not upset! I'm pissed! Tell him! Tell him about you two!"

Kensi looked at Nate, who was visibly paler than usual, and willed the man to be calm. "D'Shawn…"

"My name is Davies!" the man screamed. "I didn't say you could use my first name. Greg, tell her to talk to me with respect. I'm Petty Officer Davies, US Navy. Why the Hell do you think you can call me by my first name?"

Nate's voice was quiet. "Petty Officer, Kerry is here to talk to me about Greg—Petty Officer Kent—she's here to help him out. That's all that's going on here." He raised his voice to be heard on the speaker phone. "Greg, Kerry just came to my office, just like you asked her to. But I told her no; I can't prescribe any more painkillers to you. You'll have to ask your neurologist for more Oxycontin."

G had to smile, even as he stumbled up to Nate's door, his weapon drawn. Nate was still trying to investigate the case, even in his current circumstances. G had been right—Nate was a born operator. He put the gun back in his holster. If Nate wanted to try to talk through this, G would give him the chance. He couldn't see well enough to shoot straight anyway. He hoped Kensi was armed. G knocked on Nate's door.

"Greg?" came Davies' voice.

"Yeah." G opened the door and entered, seeing only Davies and Kensi. Where was Nate? Then a blur moved behind the psychologist's desk as Nate stood. Davies' pistol swung back to point that direction. The blur stopped moving. "What's going on, D'Shawn?"

"Ask your _girlfriend_. Go ahead, ask her."

"Kerry?"

"We're OK, Greg. I came to ask Dr. Getz about the painkillers, just like…"

"NO! Greg, don't believe her. Kerry has been coming here, ALONE, for a week. You're in our room puking, and this…this…WOMAN is here with HIM!" He turned again to Kensi. "I've seen you. Tell him!"

Callen tried to think quickly, reaching for an explanation which would calm the man down. All he could think of was "D'Shawn, we work together." He raised his hands to forestall Nate and Kensi's interruptions. It was too late for that; they had to defuse this situation as quickly as possible. The man was armed and well past rationality at this point. The truth was all they had to startle Davies with—maybe it would give them time to think. "We work together for NCIS. Kelly isn't my girlfriend. She's my partner. We've been looking for…I'm guessing, we've been looking for you. Am I right?"

The gambit didn't work. "WHAT?" Davies' arm swung wildly as he turned to stare at Callen, then turned back to Kensi. "What the F_ are you talking about?"

Callen drew his weapon once more, holding it out, but pointing it toward the floor. He really couldn't see well enough to aim at the man while guaranteeing he wouldn't hit Nate or Kensi in the close quarters. "Alfonse DeSoto, D'Shawn. You gave him the energy drinks, didn't you." It wasn't a question. "You didn't mean to hurt him. You just wanted him to leave; to flunk out of SEAL training and get sent somewhere else. Right?"

"DeSoto's SCUM! He doesn't care about Ross! He'll leave her anyway. HE'LL LEAVE!" Davies swung the pistol again, this time pointing at Kensi's head. "You saw him. You were flirting with him too! He doesn't care about her. Better for him to just get it over with, let Ross be happy again."

Nate nodded. "So you make him fail the course, get him sent back to the fleet…Ross doesn't get hurt. DeSoto's got to leave, it's not his fault, the Navy sent him…"

"I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU AM I?" This wasn't getting better. Callen raised his pistol. Davies turned to him "You…You LYING BASTARD! YOU'RE NOT EVEN BLIND ARE YOU? You come here, you stay with REAL WARRIORS, and we TRUSTED YOU!" The sailor turned toward the door to face Callen strait on. His 9 mil pointed squarely at G, his finger on the trigger. Callen saw him as a green streak. The blur that was probably Nate was right behind him from this perspective. Nate's blur moved again. Davies ignored him, focused completely upon G now.

A shot rang out, reverberating in the small office.

It took Callen a full second to realize he hadn't been shot again. Davies crumpled to the floor in seeming slow motion, falling less than two feet from G's feet. G hadn't realized how close the man had been. It was a good thing he hadn't taken the shot.

The blur that was Nate lowered his hands, then sat, hard, on his desk chair. Kensi rushed to handcuff the sailor as G knelt to pick up the fallen 9 mil. "Nice shot, Nate." The blur that was Nate put its head on Nate's desk.


	10. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I write much less interesting stuff than this for a living. I don't own, claim, or make any money from the NCIS LA characters or scenes. Wish that I did.**

**Sorry for the long delay for this. I wrote the rest of the story before Nate became super-Agent, and to tell the truth I kinda hate writing non cannon, which slowed me down some. And then came a typhoon…and a nuclear disaster…and a few trips…**

**I know. Excuses excuses. Well, here is the: **

**Epilogue**

It was dark out and the office was quiet when Sam entered to find Nate, G, Deeks and Kensi relaxing on the leather couches next to their workspace. G's white cane was propped in a corner nearby as he sipped (carefully) on a cup of tea. Their laughter reached Sam's ears as he shucked his uniform top at his desk and grabbed a cup of coffee, wincing as he tasted the bitterness of the late-night dregs. He plopped himself into one of the overstuffed chairs.

"So?" G piped up, looking at Sam's blurry outline expectantly.

"So...what?"

"I think maybe you owe Nate here an apology."

Sam smirked, then turned to the psychologist/agent. "Nice job, Nate. I am sorry I doubted you."

Nate shrugged, no longer smiling. "Not that I don't appreciate the apology, but don't worry about it. I didn't know if I could shoot until after I did it. Truth is, I didn't really think about it. Davies was pointing that gun at G…and…well…" the tall man shrugged again. "I'm just glad I didn't kill the guy." Indeed, Davies would heal physically from Nate's shot to his shoulder. Nate wondered about the man's psychological state, though.

"I'm just glad you got that time on the range!" replied G. "You could just have easily missed D'Shawn and hit me right behind him! Last thing I need is another hole in my body." He switched tones, once again the serious head agent. "Nah. You did good. You saw the situation and let training take over. Once Davies settled on the course of action he was on, you had no choice but to shoot. You did good."

There were general murmurs of agreement, and the psychologist was secretly glad Callen couldn't seem his blush. "You get everything cleaned up over at Coronado, Sam?"

"Yeah. Turns out DeSoto was sharing those energy drinks around a bunch. That clumsiness Deeks's nurse told him about? Turns out that every time the baby SEALS had some kind of test coming up, they'd psych themselves up using the drinks."

"So," continued Kensi, "when they had a physical fitness test, they'd all come in hyped up on caffeine, which hid the sleepiness from the oxycontin, and they'd end up falling flat."

"Right. And then they'd end up in NMCSD, where their injuries were chalked up to nothing more than the result of regular SEAL training, until Deeks and Eric saw the overall pattern."

"And thank you, Sam, for acknowledging the amazing job done by us civilians in this case," Deeks answered smugly. "Just for the record, I think Davies didn't want to kill anyone either; just wash DeSoto out of the program so he'd go away. Only problem was that Davies wasn't all that consistent with the dosing in those little bottles. Or maybe Boeing just had a few more than usual."

Nate nodded. "So where one bottle would make the trainees a bit clumsy and more likely to fail the tests, two or three bottles, plus the rigors of Hell Week training, stopped Boeing's heart."

Sam nodded, "that's about the size of it." He studied the psychologist. "So, Agent Getz, you thinking about more field work? Come on over to the dark side—we've got cookies!"

Nate glanced over his shoulder toward the empty office which ordinarily held their tiny Operations Manager. He smiled, thinking about the conversation he' had with Hetty earlier that afternoon. "I might. Can't rule it out." The other agents noted Nate's hesitation immediately. There was more to that statement than Nate was saying. Interesting…

"Well," said Callen, awkwardly getting to his feet and groping for his cane, "if someone would drive me home, I'm ready to sleep off this idiotic medication. Maybe tomorrow I'll actually be able to eat something without throwing it back up."

Sam grabbed the cane and took G's arm. He began to guide his partner toward the door. "Yeah, you're skinny enough without starving yourself. Don't need…" he trailed off as the office intercom came on, blasting music throughout the building. _ICE, ICE, BABY…_

"Ow!" came G's voice, as Sam smacked the blind man with his own cane.

End.

Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing!


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